


A Little Party Never Killed Nobody

by indevan



Series: Rock Band AU [32]
Category: Dragon Ball
Genre: Alternate Universe - Rock Band, Drinking, F/M, House Party, M/M, Paparazzi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-20
Updated: 2018-02-20
Packaged: 2019-03-21 14:03:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,431
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13742499
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/indevan/pseuds/indevan
Summary: “Anyway, so we were talking about a tour to support the album and junk and he mentioned that, uh, tomorrow night we got invited to a party.”“So?” Raditz shifts Goten to one arm and cocks a brow. “We get invited to parties all the time.”Turles nods his agreement.  There has to be more to it.“Well, we were invited by Whis.  To a party at his place.”





	A Little Party Never Killed Nobody

**Author's Note:**

> [AU timeline](http://vertigoats.tumblr.com/post/166537761367/since-after-the-first-few-the-fics-in-rock-band)

Turles draws his arm over his chest and winces as he hears the joints in his shoulder pop.

“That sounds awful,” Raditz observes from his spot in the kitchen where he’s making a cursory effort to do the dishes.

“No shit.” He works both of his shoulders backwards as he speaks. “I think I need a bed or at least a real mattress.  I’m getting too old.”

At that, Raditz rolls his eyes.

“Is this another complaint about how you ‘missed out’ on joining the 27 Club?”

“No, it’s me trying to get you to give me the bed.”

“Fuck no.”

Turles hops up from the couch and walks towards the kitchen.  He rises up on the balls of his feet to place his chin on his best friend’s shoulder.

“Y’know, that’s the same mattress where me and Vegeta fucked.”

“I kept sleeping on my bed at my parents’ place after you fucked my brother on it.  You’re going to need something better to convince me.”

While he contemplates his next move, Turles can’t help but think that the more things change, the more they stay the same.  Maybe it’s because the things that matter, truly matter, never do.  Sure they’ve all--ugh--grown up a little but this is a conversation he and Raditz could have had years ago.  Maybe with more anger on each of their parts than humor, but the simplicity of it’s the same. He hadn’t realize how, after becoming a rock star, how much his life would very much stay the same.  It could be because they’re only “just” taking off as if they were an overnight success and not playing together for years.  Somewhere down the line, in the months ahead, it’ll all change and he’ll pine for this but, honestly, right now there isn’t much difference in then and now.

“Okay, what about: you and Lapis are engaged and should look into moving in together?”

He hopes to catch him off-guard but Raditz merely shrugs his shoulder to get him off and smirks.

“Nice try.  We already talked about it and we’re waiting until after we’re married to get a house or somethin’.”

Turles drapes himself dramatically over the counter.  He’s officially out of material.  Truthfully, they’ve all been living together in the same shitty apartment for going on a decade now.  First him and Raditz, and then Vegeta came, then Kakarrot and Broly.  Then Kakarrot moved out when Chi-Chi had Gohan and Vegeta moved out a couple years ago to move in with Bulma and Trunks.  Even so, they’re still over enough--especially at the beginning.  Turles remembers Gohan squirming on a baby blanket while they rehearsed more than one night.  This place, shitty as it is, is their home.  He nearly smirks to himself as he thinks of the possibility of the apartment being preserved as a bit of rock’n’roll history somewhere down the line.  He hopes, if it is, they keep the penis one of their neighbors painted on their door in revenge after a particularly rowdy party one night.  You know, for posterity and all.

“Sucks to suck, dude,” Raditz says, pulling him out of his reverie. “The bedroom is mine until me and Lapis get married.”

“That’s cruel as fuck, Radi.”

He puckers his lips in a kiss before turning to the fridge in search of something for lunch.  That’s something that’s changed, too.  They actually have food in the apartment.  Before, if they were lucky, there would be a six-pack of beer, some kind of moldy bread, and maybe takeout leftovers.  Now they actually have the means to buy and make food regularly.  Or, at least, Raditz does.  Turles can follow directions on a box of brownie mix and Broly’s hopeless.  Raditz (and Kakarrot when he lived here) had to cook for themselves all the time growing up and so, in turn, fed the rest of them.

“What’s for lunch?” he asks.

“I’m making myself a sandwich.  You can fuck off.”

Even three years ago, he’s pretty sure Raditz would actually mean it.  They’ve come far in repairing their friendship, he thinks.

Knocking brings both their attention for the door and Turles’s first thought is that Broly forgot his key again.  Raditz must have the same idea because he sighs.

“I’ll go let him in.”

Turles waves a hand. “Nah, I got it.”

At that, he sees him raise his brows, which he always does recently whenever he brings up Broly and it’s fucking annoying.  He has the worst poker face in existence (except for, maybe, his brother’s) and he doesn’t need Broly freaking out.

He ignores the eyebrow raise nevertheless and walks towards the door.  He looks through their peephole even though it’s cloudy and tilts to one side and sees, not Broly, but a distorted, tiny Kakarrot.  He opens the door to see Kakarrot standing on the other side, holding Goten up towards where he knows the peephole points.

“Hey!” he says brightly.

“H--”

He’s cut off by Goten swinging his chubby arms out to move him out of the way.

“RADIS!” he screams, wriggling in his father’s hold.

Kakarrot sets him down and he books it towards the kitchen where Raditz is.

“Hey, GoGo 2: Electric Boogaloo,” he says and bends down to scoop his nephew into his arms. “What’s up?”

“Me!” he yells and rubs his forehead into Raditz’s shoulder.

“You know, if he and Lapis ever have or, like, adopt kids, Goten’s gonna lose it,” Turles says.

Kakarrot cringes. “Yeah, probably.”

He shuts the door and steps further into the apartment before shoving his hands in the pockets of his jeans.  Turles eyes him suspiciously.  With two kids and constant press bullshit, Kakarrot doesn’t just “drop by” the apartment anymore unless he has reason to.  He has a feeling it has to do with whatever meeting King Kai had had him and Vegeta go to earlier this morning.

“What?” he asks, eyes wide and, yeah, his poker face makes Raditz look like a stone statue.

Raditz makes his way over, bouncing Goten in his arms as he does.

“You look like you’re gonna shit your pants.”

“Language,” Kakarrot says because it’s the only defense he has.

“Oh, come off it.  Goten spends enough time with Trunks that he’s picked up at least a few words.”

As if understanding completely, Goten nods solemnly.  Since Raditz’s hands are full, Turles takes it upon himself to loop his arm around Kakarrot’s neck and rub his knuckles through his hair.

“Fess up.”

Kakarrot lets out a groan and wiggles out of his grasp.

“Alright, alright--fine.” He brings his hands to his hair as if Turles’s noogie made a difference in its usual level of messiness. “So, y’know how me and Geta had that meetin’ with King Kai this morning?”

“Uh-huh.”

“So, I was gonna come right after but it’s Wednesday so that means it’s toddler storytime at the library and Goten hates to miss it so I took him there first.”

Turles sighs and exchanges a look with Raditz.  Sometimes he forgets how easy it is for Kakarrot go off on tangents.

“Anyway, so we were talking about a tour to support the album and junk and he mentioned that, uh, tomorrow night we got invited to a party.”

“So?” Raditz shifts Goten to one arm and cocks a brow. “We get invited to parties all the time.”

Turles nods his agreement.  There has to be more to it.

“Well, we were invited by Whis.  To a party at his place.”

The weight of that statement settles over them all.  Even Goten seems to notice what’s going on, his little face settling into a concerned frown.

“Like to...his house?” Raditz asks, incredulous.

Kakarrot nods. “Yep.  I think this might be what pushes King Kai over the edge.  The entire time he was telling us, he was sweating and shaking.  But, like, Whis asked to invite us directly.”

Turles glances between them, clicking his tongue piercing against the back of his teeth.

“I mean, Whis’s job is to make us not look like assholes in interviews, right?  He has to know what fucking messes we are.”

“Yeah,” Kakarrot says, “but does his husband?”

He has a point.  They’ve only met Whis’s husband once, at the album launch party that almost ended in murder.  Before that, though, they knew him by reputation alone.  And who didn’t?  Even the five of them, with their tenuous at best grasp of the actual music business (they had all long ago agreed that they were going to show up, play, and be done with it), knew Beerus Lorde.  He was one of the most prolific music producers on this coast, if not the entire country.  He handled all of the big names and was as feared as he was respected in the industry.

“This is it,” Turles says finally. “This is what’s finally going to kill King Kai.”

\--

Truthfully speaking, Vegeta’s pretty used to money.  Despite his family running out of it for years before he was even born, his house was still situated in the so-called “wealthy” area of the North Side.  Up until eighth grade, he went to a fancy private school where he heard his classmates talk about their summer houses and extravagant vacations.  More recently, even though their apartment doesn’t really show it, he knows Bulma comes from a ridiculous amount of money.  Even tangentially, he’s been “money adjacent” (as his father would say to try and downplay how little money they actually had) for most of his life.

But nothing can prepare him for Whis’s house.

Honestly, he can’t say that it’s a house.  Even “mansion” feels like an understatement.  It’s huge, hulking with its turrets and balconies.

“Christ,” Bulma mutters. “This place is ridiculous.”

It looks like something out of a movie or one of those monstrosities rich people build just because they can.  The entire house is enclosed in a brick and wrought iron fence that reminds Vegeta of Cold Academy in a way he doesn’t wholly like.  It’s not like he has any good memories associated with that place, after all.

Bulma slides her arm through his and presses herself against him.

“You sure that it’s not fancy dress?” she asks, lifting a brow.

“King Kai said it’s casual and he’s so worried about us fucking it up, he wouldn’t lie.”

She nods and slides her free hand down the length of her red pleather tube dress, which--is wholly unfair.  She’s undeniably gorgeous and in that  _ dress, _ but he knows King Kai will murder him if they did anything remotely naughty in Whis and Beerus’s house.

They finally make it to the door.  He feels like they’ve hiked a fucking mile to the house after parking on the curb.  Bulma raises her hand to the heavy, iron ring on the door and bangs it against the wood.  The door opens to reveal Whis wearing what Vegeta assumes is his idea of casual clothes.  He stands in front of them impossibly tall and whip-thin in a purple and green suit.

“Hello,” he says with a smile. “So good of you to come.”

_ We didn’t have a choice, _ he wisely doesn’t say.  Instead he twists his lips into what he figures is a passing enough smile and takes the hand Whis offers him.

“Mr. Prince,” he says, always business-like and professional.  Taking Bulma’s hand, he kisses the back of it. “Miss Briefs.”

Whis steps aside to allow them in and he’s surprised at how many people are the party.  He doesn’t know any of them, which is just fantastic.  Despite most of them being in casual attire, most of them exude a professional air that makes him feel like a little kid.  Shit--he doesn’t belong here.  He isn’t a “rock star” or a “professional musician,” even after all this time.  He still feels like a kid playing pretend.

“There’s a bar in the sitting room that way,” Whis helpfully informs him. “We even hired a bartender.”

Vegeta tries to stop himself from exhaling in relief.

“Great.”

\--

Raditz doesn’t know shit about design but he’s pretty sure that Whis and Beerus’s house looks like a McMansion nightmare.  Everything is gaudy and vaguely rococo-looking (a style whose name he only learned because Lapis had him watch that one, weird movie about Marie Antoinette with modern music).  He feels completely overloaded, which is usually his brain’s cue to do that thing where his eyes unfocus and he loses his complete sense of self.  It’s been a minute since he’s had one of those episodes, so he figures that he’s due.

Searching for some kind of anchor, he pulls his phone out and sends a picture of one of the hugely garish mirrors with the thick, gold frame to Lapis.  He takes a deep breath and massages his temples.

“You’re the drummer, right?  From Apetail?”

Raditz starts at the sudden intrusion and turns to see a guy around his age gazing up at him.  His hair falls over his face and is dyed so blonde that it’s practically white.  He’s wearing a pair of unfairly tight, purposely distressed jeans and a tie-dyed shirt so tight it looks painted on (not like Raditz is one to talk) under a silk bomber jacket.  He’s cute, he notes, with serious cheekbones and gorgeously gray eyes.  Something about him is sort of familiar, though.

“Yeah, that’s me,” he says because, even after having to mingle at all of these fancy parties, he has no concept of how to talk to someone without tripping on his words. “Um.  Are you a friend of the Lordes?”

The guy laughs, shaking his head so the gold and orange earrings dangling from his ears twinkle in the lights.

“Sort of.  My grandfather is a longtime friend of theirs.”

“Oh.” Raditz chews his lip. “Are you a musician?”

He nods. “I mean...yeah, synth stuff.  That Casio life.”

The guy laughs again.

“Anything I might have heard?”

He glances at him and twists one finger in his hair.

“Maybe.  I opened for Sadistic Dance once.”

Raditz’s eyes widen with realization. “Oh!  That’s where I’ve seen you before.  You’re Z, or whoever.”

His lips curve up in a slight smile. “Give the boy a prize.”

He cringes. “Sorry, I...I’m bad at names.”

Z waves a hand dismissively. “Don’t worry about it.  So...I have no one to hang out with at this party except for my grandpa.  Do you…?”

Raditz can’t see the others in this Winchester Mystery of a house and so he nods.

\--

“So they changed it so that he only kills people who are related to him and he considers anyone who lives in the house as family.  But that’s the weird, cult one that no one likes to talk about.”

Kakarrot isn’t used to people listening to him in rapt fascination.  A bunch of big name music people sit around him, listening to him talk about the  _ Halloween _ franchise.  It’s a bit intimidating but better than the alternative when he goes to these parties by himself.  Chi-Chi hates them--hates the attention and the people she doesn’t know--so she stayed home with the boys.

He fiddles with his wedding ring a little, chewing his lips as he does.  Truthfully, a bunch of rich people listening to him talk about horror movies is better than the alternative when he comes to these things alone.  Women have taken to throwing themselves at him with increasing regularity and he hates it.  The more popular they get, the more people want a piece of him.  In every way.  He’d hoped that his wedding ring would act like a crucifix on a vampire and keep them away, but it doesn’t deter the groupies in the slightest.  He isn’t sure why.  He never slept around on Chi-Chi before they were married so why would he now?  Hell, she and Turles are the only two people he’s ever slept with--technically, anyway.

The non-romantic (or sexual) attention is neat, though.  Very rarely does he get people hanging off of his every word and feeling is pretty nice.  A bit overwhelming, though.  All these fancy industry people sitting around him while he’s perched on some blue velvet couch in one of Whis and Beerus’s many sitting rooms nodding their heads and being “wowed.”

“Where’s your wife?” a woman asks.  He thinks she’s another music producer but he honestly has no clue.

“At home with our sons,” he says.

“Flying solo?” a girl, maybe another music artist or a model or something, asks.  She crosses her impossibly long legs and raises her eyebrows.

“Uh...no?”

“You’re pretty wholesome for a punk stoner,” the girl purrs.

_ Alright, we’re done here. _

Kakarrot gets up off of the couch and decides that his best course of action is to find this bar he heard about.

\--

“You, uh, really like Tanqueray, huh?”

Raditz knows he’s tipsy but watching Z carry on with his fifth or sixth gin and tonic, he can’t help but feel decidedly sober.

“It’s the best brand,” he slurs. “Want some?”

He shakes his head.  He has a few beers in him, but he figures  _ one  _ of them has to be level headed.  Raditz sometimes hates how that duty so often falls on him, but he thinks it comes with the territory of being a big brother.  Being responsible for Kakarrot after Grandpa died and while his parents were at work led to being responsible for his other friends and their inevitable fuck-ups.  Even Turles, who’s older than him.

Z spins on one foot and lands on the yellow damask couch.

“I love the way you drum,” he tells him. “You don’t just  _ drum. _  It’s like you...breathe it?  Like it’s your whole body.”

He’s not making any sense so Raditz carefully takes the glass from him.  Z seems to notice because he pouts a bit.

“Aw, I’m fine,” he insists.

“Are you?”

He laughs and slaps Raditz’s shoulder playfully. “You got me there.  Thanks for looking out for me.”

He’s about to say “you’re welcome,” but then Z’s lips are on his.  Raditz recoils, pushing him away and nearly tumbling off of the couch.

“Dude, what the fuck?” he demands.  The gin and tonic splashes all over him, drenching his shirt and making him shiver.

Z stares at him and puts both hands over his mouth.

“Ohhhhh, shit,” he says. “I’m so sorry.  I just  _ do that _ when I’m drunk.”

Raditz sits up and plucks at his soaked shirt. “I’m engaged.”

“I know.” Z hangs his head. “And I  _ know _ Lapis.  He’s chill.  We took bars together.  I’m  _ so _ sorry.”

He sounds properly chastised and so Raditz can’t really stay mad.  He sighs and gets to his feet.

“Let’s get you some water, okay?”

Z bites his lip. “Good idea.”

\--

If the Lordes’ house was ridiculous in the front, the surreality of it all only continues in the back.  Vegeta stands in front of their enormous, Olympic-sized pool, watching their menagerie of animals meander by.  Only people this fucking rich would just have peacocks wandering in the backyard.  There’s a low fence surrounding the pool keeping the peacocks out and one pecks at it before lifting its head to stare at he and Bulma outside.

They’re the only ones out here, but she says she wants privacy so they wander off towards the darkened garden with its stone statues and expensive plants.  Even in the gloom, he can see several of the lilies his mother used to grow in the greenhouse.  As a child, he used to shove his face in them, wanting to breathe them in and wonder why she spent so much time with them.

He lights two cigarettes and hands one to Bulma.  It’s quiet out here, far from the house, and she’s right--they do feel removed from it all.

“I can swallow it,” he says, exhaling smoke.

“Swallow what?” Bulma looks around as if she missed part of the conversation.

“The cigarette.” He props it between his fingers and lets it hang there as they walk. “Do you want to see?”

She stops and cocks her head to the side. “Honestly?  Yeah.”

He puts the cigarette back in his mouth and then, with his lips, balances the foot of it on the tip of his tongue.  He opens his mouth and uses his tongue to push it backwards.  Once he swallows, he breathes smoke out through his nose.  Bulma goggles at him.

“How?” she demands.

“I can do five at once, but it’s a waste.”

“How?” she repeats. “You shouldn’t even do  _ one.” _

Vegeta walks over to a statue of a girl crouched by a small reflection pond.  She’s sculpted as though she’s pouring water into the pond and he places his hand on the cool stone of the vase she holds.

“When I was little and my dad was working, my mom would take me with her to the theatre sometimes and none of the other people there really knew how to interact with kids.  I think one of her co-stars taught me when I was around four.”

He hears Bulma let out a snort as she comes up behind him, her spiky heels scraping on the rock path.

“Because that’s a normal thing to teach a four-year-old.”

She puts her hands on his shoulders and squeezes them gently.  She doesn’t say it but he knows that she’s glad he told him--told her anything about his mother.  Truthfully, it’s still hard.  Old wounds that never got to properly heal.

“I was in a couple of their shows,” he says for her benefit. “In A  _ Midsummer’s Night Dream, _ I was one of the fairies.  I was maybe two?”

She laughs. “Please tell me there’s photos.  I want to see you looking cute with little winds and stuff.”

“There are,” he replies.

At his father’s house.  Maybe, when he’s ready, they can go there.  Maybe.

“What else?”

Bulma pulls him away from the statue and they walk further down the path.  Her own cigarette is stamped out on the ground and he leaves it there.  It’s not like Whis or Beerus will know it’s them.

_ “Les Mis,” _ he says. “My mom was Fantine.  I sang in that one.”

She laughs. “Who’d you play?”

“The kid who gets shot.”

“Don’t they all get shot?”

“Yeah, but the little one.” Vegeta holds his hand a foot or two above the ground for emphasis. “The kid-kid.”

“Ah.” She smiles and adds, “I’d love to see that.”

“Maybe,” he allows.

Being out here, he feels uncharacteristically light.  Maybe it’s talking like this, talking about the good moments with his mom rather than the bad.

“Thanks,” she says with a laugh and he isn’t sure for what but, then, he also is.

Bulma snags his sleeve and turns him around.

“What?”

She kisses him once lightly and then more deeply.  He kisses back, putting his arms around her waist and pulling her close.  She pushes his jacket down from his shoulders and he shrugs it off.  Bulma switches their positions and sinks down onto the jacket, pulling him with her.  His earlier preoccupations of King Kai murdering them for fooling around leave his head (the vodka earlier helped with that as well) because he can push that dress up on her hips and feel the press of her heels in his sides.

Bulma undoes his pants with a well-practiced flick of her fingers and pulls back.  Her dark lipstick is barely even smeared--once she tested its longevity by going down on him for a full half hour as an “experiment” and it was the best scientific research of his life--and she smiles.

“We probably shouldn’t,” she says.

“No, probably not.”

“But do you care?” She flutters her eyelashes. “‘Cause I don’t.”

He chooses to answer by capturing her lips again.

\--

“There you are.”

Turles steps out onto the back patio and grins.  Broly looks up slightly and then back out at the one of the peacocks as it wanders the yard.

“Too many people,” he mumbles. “Had to get out.”

“I feel that.”

Turles draws up next to him and taps a cigarette out of his pack.  He offers one to Broly out of politeness even though he knows he’s just going to shake his head.  He’s told him that he likes the smell of the smoke, though, the giant weirdo.

He lights the cigarette, cupping his hand around the flame and flipping the lighter shut once he’s done.  He drops it in his pocket and inhales hard.

“Some party, huh?” he asks.

Broly shrugs and lifts one hand to fiddle with his figaro chain.

“They’re all kind of the same,” he says. “This locations just change.”

“Definitely.”

He’s right.  The only difference between these parties and the ones in his friend Dais’s rec room is that there are so-called “important” people here who care about them and what they have to say.  There’s more riding on the parties.  If anything, he likes the after parties when the shows are over more.  They can be themselves and get fucked up and work out leftover adrenaline from the stage.

Broly keeps looking out at the pool and the blue light flickers on his face, making him look almost beautiful.  His brows are drawn down and his mouth is set in a slight frown and Turles is seized with the desire to kiss it away.  He inhales harder on his cigarette, practically biting at the filter, to push the idea from his head.

He drops the cigarette and grinds his combat boot into it a maybe a bit too forcefully.

“Hey, Broles--”

He’s cut off by an odd wailing coming from the direction of the garden.  For a moment, he thinks that maybe there’s a ghost or one of the weirdly gaudy, expensive stone statues has come to life, but then he realizes that it isn’t wailing at all.  It’s moaning.  More specifically it’s Vegeta “I know how loud I am during sex but, no, I will not do anything about it” Prince out there fucking in the garden and now he and Broly have to hear it.

“Maybe inside isn’t too bad,” he opines.

Broly nods and gives a slight laugh. “Yeah, maybe.”

Turles turns towards the house just in time to see Kakarrot stumble out.

“Heyyyy,” he drawls. “I should go home.  Let’s go home.  Take me home.”

He falls forward and drapes his body across Turles.  Really, he’s grateful.  They had been Kakarrot’s ride for the night since his car is acting up and Chi-Chi needed hers so getting his inebriated ass home is a good excuse.

“Sure,” he says. “Let’s find Radi and beat it.  Right, Broles?”

Broly stares at him for a moment as if he’s still wondering what Turles was going to say before they were interrupted by the sounds of sex emanating from the garden.  He hopes if he figures it out he’ll tell him because, honestly, he has no clue himself.

\--

Raditz is glad to leave, honestly.  He was getting a bit sick of babysitting the very apologetic but still very drunk Z.  He finally located his grandfather at the party and pawned him off on him.  When Turles and Broly came up--the former tugging his brother along behind them--and said they were leaving, he nearly jumped for joy.

Of course, King Kai will kill them if they leave without saying good-bye to the Lordes.  Weaving through the labyrinthian house, they manage to find them in one of the sitting rooms.

“We’re heading out,” he says. “Kakarrot needs to get home.”

“Yeah.” He leans in and stage whispers, “I’m drunk.”

“Thank you for having us,” Broly mumbles.

Beerus, to his credit, looks highly amused.  Whis, meanwhile, is frowning at something on his phone.

“Before you go,” he says, holding up one slender finger. “Raditz, have you seen this?”

He turns his phone towards them and he stares at the screen.  The picture shown is posted to some gossip blog with credit to Instagram and depicts the moment Z kissed him on the couch.  What it leaves out, of course, is him pushing him away and the subsequent apology.

“Uhhh, excuse?” Turles asks, quirking a brow. “Radi, what the fuck?”

“He kissed me!” he blurts out. “And spilled his drink on me--but mostly just he kissed me and I shoved him off.”

Whis nods. “Mm, yes, I had a feeling.  Unfortunately, this blog isn’t the only the place this picture is posted, nor simply just on this person’s Instagram.  I can run damage control but I have a feeling that I’m not the one you should be giving this explanation to.”

Lapis.

Shit.

What’s he going to think when he sees that?  The picture looks very incriminating.  Whoever snapped it got it as Raditz put his hand on him to push him off but it just looks like he’s resting his hand on his shoulder.

“Do you wanna be dropped off at Lapis’s rather than at home?” Turles asks.

He nods. “Yeah.”

“And can I have the bed tonight?”

Raditz sighs and resists the urge to shove him.

“As long as he doesn’t kick me out, yes.”

Whis turns his phone back around and says, “Like I told you, I can run damage control in the morning and speak with Gowasu--that is, ‘Z’s’ grandfather--and get you both to do a quick soundbite debunking it.  Of course, that’s for the morning.”

He links his arm through his husband’s and smiles serenely at them.

“Regardless, thank you all for coming and have a wonderful night.”

Right.  Like he can.

\--

Unlike their apartment building, Lapis’s apartment doesn’t have the actual doors open to the outside.  It’s a proper building with a buzzer.  Part of him is worried that when he presses the button and says, “Hey, it’s Raditz,” that he’ll just refuse to let him in but instead he simply gets the sound of the magnetic lock undoing itself.  Not getting a response at all, though, feels even worse.

He doesn’t bother waiting for the elevator and simply dashes up the three flights of stairs to the right floor.  His heart is already hammering so what’s some last minute cardio?  He knocks on the door.

“It’s open.”

It’s hard to judge Lapis’s tone through the door but he doesn’t sound too amused.  Raditz opens the door and is sure to lock it behind him.

“Hey,” he says.

“I’ve seen it,” Lapis tells him.

He’s holding arm in his other hand, almost deliberately covering up the tattoo on the inside of his wrist.

“I figured.” He swallows. “I wanted to come and explain myself to you immediately.”

“I just got back from the show,” he says. “Can you imagine stepping offstage to a bunch of messages of people sending me a picture of my fiancé kissing someone else?”

His tone is deliberate and controlled but Raditz can detect a slight waver.

“Sort...of.”

The image of walking into his bedroom and finding Turles and Kakarrot in  _ his _ bed is still fresh in his mind.  He’s gotten over it, forgiven them both, but he’ll never forget that image.

“So.  What’s the explanation?”

Lapis steps towards him and he sees that he’s still dressed in his clothes from the show and there’s disco dust in his hair.  His eyeliner is smudged and his voice still sounds achey and dry from singing.  God, he looks perfect.

“He got drunk, kissed me, and I pushed him off.  And he spilled his drink on me.” He taps his shirt.  It’s dried but he still reeks of gin.

“That’s it?”

He nods. “Uh, yeah.”

Lapis’s lips curve up into a slight smile. “Okay.”

“Okay?”

He nods. “You’re a bad liar.  If anything was going on, you’d crumble and also...you wouldn’t do that.  I know you wouldn’t.”

“I wouldn’t,” he agrees.

And it’s true.  No matter how pissed off he got at Turles when they were together, he never slept with anyone behind his back.

“I just wanted to hear it from you,” he says.

Raditz heaves a relieved sigh.  Lapis comes and wraps his arms around his torso.

“So you stink of gin and I’m gross after a show...wanna shower?” he asks, cocking his head to the side.

“Of course.”

Lapis starts to lead him towards the bathroom, taking him by the hand, and Raditz takes his phone out and sends a quick text to Turles telling him he can have the bed for the night.


End file.
